Automaton
by In Christ Alone
Summary: When a large shipment of illegal narcotic drugs appears in a Dublin port, Artemis Fowl, a semi-official informant of the Gardaí, is intrigued. But the seemingly small problem turns into a much larger scale when the drug users start to die off in mass amounts. The drugs are traced to Gotham, and the personal battles of identity begin. Artemis and his clone, Batman and... the Bat?
1. Darkness at Port

**Kay, so… No 'My Heart Was Home Again' update for very good reasons (surprise road trip… and then classes, and a choir concert I had to be a manager for. And now I'm sick. Sigh.) But, here is a Batman/AF cross over I am trying out. ****Maybe: If I get enough positive response. ****I might post it anyway, but I would like to see the market for Batman/Artemis Fowl lovers there are. So let me know if you like it. Review, Le doth hoil? Por Favor?**

**Oh, and it shan't be updated to frequently, as it is not my main focus right now. But still, it seems cool...**

**The summary:  
**

* * *

**Ireland**

When a large shipment of illegal narcotic drugs appears in a Dublin port, Artemis Fowl is intrigued. A semi-official informant of the Gardaí, he is instantly brought in as a consultant of the case. But the seemingly small problem turns into a much larger scale when the drug users start to die off in mass amounts. A disease is infecting them, and spreading. Fast. Soon, even the non-addicts will fall victim to the deadly strain unless Artemis can track its origins.

* * *

**Gotham**

After the communications fall out, Gotham has slowly rebuilt itself on its ruins, and has turned back into the prosperous- if crime-ridden- metropolis of before. Bruce Wayne is as public as before, if not more so, driving charities and projects to rebuild the lives of the citizens. The Batman is also hard at work, caring for his routine of, if boring, crime stopping.

But when an odd bunch of Irish come asking for his aid, and claiming Gotham is the origin of a catastrophic outbreak, he is caught off guard. He must find the culprit of this heinous attack before Dublin, and also Gotham, fall prey to a seemingly asymptomatic, fatal virus.

* * *

**The Personal Battle**

Artemis himself has been having trouble in coming to terms with his new body. While he is patient with the slow-returning memories, the increasing amount of impairments start showing and wrecking him emotionally. These imparities start mounting and Artemis starts breaking: For what is he, besides his intellect and what he offers the world in skill?

Bruce Wayne: Batman. The two have become almost synonymous in his mind, blurring into each other until there is nothing left but the 'bat'. Soon, he can't decide whether Bruce is the mask, or Batman is. What is he, really? When had the line been taken away, until he had truly become that otherworldly thing?

And then the rage starts mounting. Did anyone truly know how much pain he had been through? How much despair and agony?

When could he find himself again; amongst the pain, the bat, the rage, the _rage_…

Alliances will be forged. Ties will be broken. Identities revealed. Lives will be changed, and, most of all:

The world must be saved.

Again.

* * *

**Chapter One**

**Dublin Ferry Port**

**Terminal 5**

**Ireland**

The ocean was black and dark as it rocked soothingly against the cargo ship, its old hull still and quiet. The workers in the ship yard loaded the last of the cargo boxes onto the 'rolo'- roll in, roll out- and then slid onto the concrete platform. There, the boxes would be sorted by shipper and receiver, company and stock; it all depended on the package.

Tonight, however, as one of the workers pulled the last remaining crate out onto the concrete, all the containers would not get sorted. There would be one to throw quite a wrench into things.

Generally, the attitude of the shipyard reflected that of the day's activities: usually there were inspectors to skirt, and boss' to pacify. They were usually practically and well-dressed. They usually repeated pleasantries like a mantra. But not today. It was Christmas Eve, with the last shift on duty working. Even this shift was coming to an end, and the workers congregating around the lamp posts for light.

Patrick Shaumery was one of the younger workers, only two months on the job and already proving himself to be quite the klutz. From light banter to ridicule, he would receive it all with a smile as he dropped _everything_. (Something about a very accurate rogue wave was mentioned to the Port Manager when asked about the ruined crate of two thousand Ferro Rocher chocolates. No one knew what really happened.)

Patrick's hands were clad in warm gloves to combat the Christmas Eve chill, although the temperature still got through into his bones. His feet slipped on ice as he grasped the sharp metal of the door latch, making him slide forward into the door.

The silent was night was met with resounding thud, and Patrick stood rubbing his head.

"Ouch."

"Ouch is right, ye clumsy eejit. What's yer problem?"

Patrick shoved a hand through his caramel hair. "Ehm… just the normal, I guess. Sorry…"

The other man: Mark, a senior on the team, grumbled and stomped out his cigarette before lumbering over to help tug over the crate.

Until the handle came off in his hand.

"What the..." his eyes squinted in confusion, and a web of lines fanned across his face as he studied the screw holes in the metal. He reached a gloved hand up, fingering the long, thin marks scathing their way across the metal paneling.

Patrick leaned over his shoulder and studied the lines with pursed lips.

"Those look like… saw marks?"

Mark nodded in dismay and straightened. He waved a hand to his comrades, yelling out, "Eh, ye freakin' eejits! Come see this! It seems ol' Patrick was in the right this time! It seems like we got ourselves some good-old fashioned tampering! What-"

His question was cut off abruptly as the cargo box door was slammed opened noisily. Men swarmed Mark, bringing him to his knees with the prodding of their guns. As Patrick spun around to run, a light was flashed in his eyes, and the unmistakable shape of a gun barrel forced its way into his vision.

The world was only blinding light and voices, the silhouettes of armed men revolved around him. Screaming, yelling, pain, death…

Shots fired.

Bodies fell, their soft thud echoing down the suddenly silent port. As heat rushed to Patrick's arm, and light, heady feeling of blood loss reached him, his eyes started shutting. The breaths came short and few between.

The last sound he heard was the sound of cargo being unloaded from above him, and the door shutting squeaky and slowly.

* * *

**So… maybe? Let me know! Oh, and it will have a very much-better image soon, the sketch is sitting on my drafting table right now. It should be down soon. **

**Theme song for this, 'Automaton- Abney Park' is pefect... it sounds like the main description for both Batman and Artemis Fowl. The link will be in my profile. Listen, if you want to! It's friggan' awesome!  
**


	2. Saxophones and Complexity

**Garner Opera House and Dance**

**Gotham City**

**December 24**

* * *

A lilting song of saxophones waltzed its way through the room, bringing the atmosphere to a big-band, twenties-style feel. Everything was gold and white, from the vaulted ceilings to the ornate tables below. It was a two-story affair, with marbled columns and crystal chandeliers that tinkled and swayed with the loud music. People milled about below in that suave, slow, and coy way, eyeing each other and giving the fake smiles of a forced acquaintance.

Only one person seemed to be having fun at the moment, and that was, of course, Bruce Wayne.

"Ah, yes, butler there. Fetch me another Scotch, will you?"

The stern butler nodded and continued walking, garnering more requests as he passed. His receding back was swallowed in a wave of dancers as they turned about in sync; silk and tweed and pearls spinning gracefully.

Bruce turned to the woman on his shoulder, her green eyes sparkling in fake pleasure as she leaned in, smooth hands gliding onto his broad shoulders in a gentle caress. His smirk grew as her lips enclosed on his ear, drawing a pleased moan from her. She shifted greedily on the wine-colored couch, the hem of her black cocktail dress hitching salaciously higher. As her hands started to get a little more wayward, Bruce _tsked_ playfully and pushed her hands off.

"Now, now darlin'. We can't have that in a public place, now can we?"

She purred lightly and pulled back, righting her dress and reaching delicately for the champagne on the returning butler's tray. Bruce stood lithely and accepted the drink casually, and then bid the woman farewell. He sidestepped the swinging dancers and maneuvered out of the sitting area, around the edges of the dance floor and into the foyer. There, businessmen and women alike congregated in small parties to discuss subjects not suited for the dancing floor.

He approached a man of his age, with meticulously styled hair and a web of prevalent thought lines on his forehead.

"Mr. Calgori! Pleasure to see you here. How is the daughter?"

He turned to Bruce and nodded, raising his glass in greeting. His deep brown eyes hinted at a more nefarious nature than his clothing said.

"Much better, thank you. She had recovered almost totally, excluding the leg injury."

Bruce nodded and smiled pleasantly. "And she has the crutches temporarily, correct?"

"Yes. She should be off them within the month." He lifted the champagne glass to his lips as he spoke, watching Bruce as if gauging a financial threat. But Bruce did naught but smile back, his gaze open and trusting. (Quite the opposite, in reality, but the world thought him as a fop, so that is what they would see.)

"And the car?"

Calgori shrugged."Totaled, but not much of a worry, as it was not the Ferrari. It was not much of a loss."

A head rounded Calgori's shoulder, a sweet, smiling face with large, innocent eyes. Bruce's smile widened.

"Mrs. Calgori! A great pleasure. How are you?"

Mrs. Hannah Calgori was one of the few upper-class people Bruce genuinely liked. She was a darling woman, of short stature and elfin features with short, mouse brown hair and large hazel eyes that always seemed to be smiling. And, a plus Bruce learned shortly after meeting her: she was one of the biggest charity sponsors in Gotham. Not from her husband's money, but of her own, raised by her artwork. Everyone who met her wondered how on earth she ended up married to Mr. Calgori: she was too good; to kind. But she seemed to truly love him.

Hannah stepped from her husband's side and wrapped Bruce in a cordial hug, then pulled back to speak.

"Bruce! I am doing better; how about you? You seem to have been absent from the social calendar as of late."

He nodded. "Yes, I had a long correspondence with my Asian firm branch in Taiwan. I had to fly over for a month. But rest assured, I am back! And you have come to save me from the bores of our kind."

Hannah giggled as Mr. Calgori smirked.

"Sometimes, Bruce, I believe that you really aren't a man deserving of your reputation concerning women, but then I see you charming my wife away from me and all hope is lost."

Bruce waved a hand in dismissal. "Me? Charming your wife? Never. I am merely enjoying her presence more than the others; she is not a bore like almost everyone else."

Hannah laughed happily and patted Calgori's cheek. "Don't worry, dear, I'm yours alone. But on other news, Mr. Wayne, how is the son? I have not heard from him in a long time. My artwork is now lacking in Dick Grayson input."

Bruce laughed heartily. "Yes, he does seem to influence everything he touches, does he not? Dick is fine and well, and renting an apartment in Bludhaven. He has been quite busy in college, so he has not visited in a rather long time."

"Ah. A pity, no? I do miss him. Tell him I said hello, next time you see him, please."

As Bruce opened his mouth to respond, Calgori grabbed his wife's arm. "Yes, yes, that's splendid, dear. Let's be going now. I have had one champagne to many."

As his arm encircle Hannah's wrist, the bejeweled bracelet clasp undid and slid the floor. Bruce quickly crouched and picked it up, presenting to a flustered Mrs. Calgori. But she took it gracefully and let him fasten it back on under her husbands glare.

"Thank you, Bruce." She smiled and curtsied gracefully, until she was tugged on the arm once again.

To Bruce, Mr. Calgori nodded casually, as if that helped his abrupt removal with his perfectly sober face. "Good night, Mr. Wayne. And a Merry Christmas!"

Bruce nodded politely and bowed to Mrs. Calgori, kissing her hand and shaking Mr. Calgori's. "Good night. Glad to see you both, and a happy new year!"

As they stepped lightly away from him and into the sea of dancers, Bruce sighed and plastered-yet another- fake smile on his face, and strode among the dancers. At times he would dance, and other times simply watch with that all-knowing, naughty smirk he had so well mastered.

One might ask why he went to these things if all he did was smile and flirt. But, if one knew his true nature, the answer was obvious:he had to keep up appearances. If his position in society slid from the front pages of the tabloid magazines, then it made him all the more likely a target for the Batman suspicions.

After a considerable amount of time blathering on and on about typical high-society things, he quietly made his leave, nodding politely at passing associates and kissing the cheeks of many a woman.

As he made his way out of the dance floor, he took a breath and brushed imaginary mussed hairs, using the movement to covertly press the com set in his ear.

"Alfred, pull up the car, please. It is getting rather late."

A cultured British tone answered immediately. "On the way. Sir. The Lamborghini?"

"Yes."

With that he cut the link off, plastering his fake smile back onto his face and easily making his way to the lobby of the opulent building. He was stopped only twice, once by a needling business man and once by a man from Wayne Enterprises asking advice, in a hushed whisper, about a deal over the Asian branch dealing with utensils.

Bruce sighed as he stepped through the large oak doors and into the night air. The party had been long and tedious, with the annoying monotony of the haughty rich to accompany and gossip. Why did he even come?

Yes, this had already been answered, but he felt the moral need to ask it again as the delicate beauty of a Ferrari, (Mr. Reading's Ferrari, by the custom color of it) sped down the road and sloshed rain water on the lone man standing on the street corner.

Bruce sighed tiredly as the Lamborghini slid stealthily into place, and he slid, just as stealthily, into the black leather seats. The welcomed cool of the leather soothed his aching limbs, sore from both stagnant parties and ..._ahem_...nightly activities.

Alfred's brown eyes peered at him in the rear view mirror, and with his customary taunt:

"Alone, Master Bruce?"

He smiled. "Yes, Alfred. Besides, there were none available today, except for the usual."

"And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"

Bruce peered up at Alfred incredulously. "Was that... Sarcasm?"

Alfred only smiled slyly, causing his 'master' to chuckle, and lean forward in mock seriousness. "Only my butler. But, dear Alfred, I must say I was unaware that your arsenal included sarcasm. What an abstract mind. "

He looked shocked. "I beg your pardon. This should not come from the man who wears tights every night, dresses like a bat, and hops from roofs tops with the simple notion of chasing criminals. "

Bruce flashed a smirk. "No, that just makes me complicated."

"And you couldn't have simply become a police officer?"

"That would have been _simple_, Alfred."

"Ah."

* * *

His steps crunched slightly atop the roof as he used his boot the shove away the gravel accumulating near the ledge. Moonlight shone slightly along the edges of his cape as he drew it around him, menacingly watching the city below him.

It had been an oddly quiet night, with only two robberies to report of and no sightings of any of the major crooks. He was not sure if this was a good sign, or a bad one, signaling the conspiratorial stage of a sting.

He shook out of his musings and tuned back into Oracle's bored burbling over the comm set. It had, apparently, been an even quieter night there.

"...Scarecrow, still at large, nothing to report. Joker, incarcerated at Arkham, no improvement whatsoever. (Nothing new). Harley Quinn, also at large, multiple sightings near Arkham, probably trying to spring 'Puddin'. I stuck Night' on that one. And... Yep,that's the last. So...How was the Christmas Eve party?"

He grunted back noncommitally.

She got the message. "Ugh. That bad, huh? Better you than me."

He shrugged, the sound coming over the link like a textured sigh. She chuckled.

"You don't even have anything to say? You usually at least vent and tell me about the cheap wine. Not to mention the, ah... Companionable women, there."

Silence.

"C'mon..."

"Calgori is worrying me."

The time she sighed at the change in subject. It was a futile battle.

"What's worrying? Besides his choice in ties, that is."

"He had three scuff marks on the outer edge of his dress shoes, in sync with the marks made by a mud scraper. A dried crust, barely noticeable, on the bottom of his shoes matched the soil content on the beach by the East Pier, the area frequented by Scarecrow."

"Well, just because he was there doesn't mean that he was in cohorts with the...man. And... How did you get a soil sample from his shoes?" Barbara tapped a pen on her upper lip thinking over her part in playing the Devil's advocate.

"You should know. I hugged Mrs. Calhori, and loosened her bracelet. When her husband tried to perform his customary hasty exit, she dropped it. I scooped it up and some of the dirt and hid it in a small sample bag. I have further evidence of his possible partnerhip, but it needs to be investigated further."

"And that evidence is...?"

"Fear, O. Fear. His pupils were dilated into pinpoints, and not from the champagnes. That, as you well know, is a common symptom of Scarecrow's powder. There was also the slight reddening about the eyes, along with the porous texture it gains when absorbing the airborne particles. He needs to be watched. Has there been any other news that could be pegged to him?"

"None yet. But I'm watching."

A beep sounded over the link, alerting both speakers of a third party.

"Hey, Night here! What's up, B-man? O?"

Oracle sighed over the link, a half-laugh, half-exasperated sigh. "Hey, man. B's coming over your way now. Robbery, 44 West Side. Just came over. Finally."

"Got it."

"Roger that, oh my...O."

She smiled. They were so different. Hopefully, their newly-rebuilt relationship would last longer than the last one. And, with the relatively clear radar they had at the moment, maybe they would have more time together.

Little did she know that this 'clear radar' was about to be ruined. And burned.

* * *

**A not-really meaningful chapter, I know, but I needed to set up the scene. Next one will be from Artemis's world perspective. :D **

**As I've been saying recently, autocorrect is killing me. I apologize if there were any spelling errors (I just put 'fall through' and it put tKigali ... Is that even a word?) fall through my scrutiny. Thanks!**


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